It was a sombre snowy afternoon, and the gas-lamps were lit in the big reverberating station. As he paced the platform, waiting for the Washington express, he remembered that there were people who thought there would one day be a tunnel under the Hudson through which the trains of the Pennsylvania railway would run straight into New York. They were of the brotherhood of visionaries who likewise predicted the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days, the invention of a flying machine, lighting by electricity, telephonic communication without wires, and other Arabian Night marvels.

I dont care which of their visions comes true, Archer mused, as long as the tunnel isnt built yet. In his senseless school-boy happiness he pictured Madame Olenskas descent from the train, his discovery of her a long way off, among the throngs of meaningless faces, her clinging to his arm as he guided her to the carriage, their slow approach to the wharf among slipping horses, laden carts, vociferating teamsters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat, where they would sit side by side under the snow, in the motionless carriage, while the earth seemed to glide away under them, rolling to the other side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming themselves on his lips.

The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenskas pale and surprised face close at hand, and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like.

After that it all happened as he had dreamed. He helped her into the brougham with her bags, and had afterward the vague recollection of having properly reassured her about her grandmother and given her a summary of the Beaufort situation (he was struck by the softness of her: Poor Regina!). Meanwhile the carriage had worked its way out of the coil about the station, and they were crawling down the slippery incline to the wharf, menaced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses, dishevelled express-wagons, and an empty hearseah, that hearse! She shut her eyes as it passed, and clutched at Archers hand.

Oh, no, noshes much bettershes all right, really. Thereweve passed it! he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a faint smile, and he said: You didnt expect me today?

She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each others faces.

In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Rivières visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wifes carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Rivière any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: He writes to her, then.

Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archers turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds.

The answer checked the pleading on Archers lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her.

No. You ought not to have come today, she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly.

Dont be afraid of me: you neednt squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isnt what I want. Look: Im not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Dont suppose that I dont understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love affair. I couldnt have spoken like this yesterday, because when weve been apart, and Im looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and youre so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true.

She laughed again, more gently. No; I shant get out and walk, because my business is to get to Grannys as quickly as I can. And youll sit beside me, and well look, not at visions, but at realities.

The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.

I wantI want somehow to get away with you into a world where words like thatcategories like thatwont exist. Where we shall be simply two human beings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter.

She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh. Oh, my dearwhere is that country? Have you ever been there? she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: I know so many whove tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carloand it wasnt at all different from the old world theyd left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous.

Well, she opened my eyes too; its a delusion to say that she blinds people. What she does is just the contraryshe fastens their eyelids open, so that theyre never again in the blessed darkness. Isnt there a Chinese torture like that? There ought to be. Ah, believe me, its a miserable little country!

The carriage had crossed Forty-second Street: Mays sturdy brougham-horse was carrying them northward as if he had been a Kentucky trotter. Archer choked with the sense of wasted minutes and vain words.

For us? But theres no us in that sense! Were near each other only if we stay far from each other. Then we can be ourselves. Otherwise were only Newland Archer, the husband of Ellen Olenskas cousin, and Ellen Olenska, the cousin of Newland Archers wife, trying to be happy behind the backs of the people who trust them.

He sat silent, dazed with inarticulate pain. Then he groped in the darkness of the carriage for the little bell that signalled orders to the coachman. He remembered that May rang twice when she wished to stop. He pressed the bell, and the carriage drew up beside the curbstone.

No: I shall get out here, he stammered, opening the door and jumping to the pavement. By the light of a street-lamp he saw her startled face, and the instinctive motion she made to detain him. He closed the door, and leaned for a moment in the window.

Youre right: I ought not to have come today, he said, lowering his voice so that the coachman should not hear. She bent forward, and seemed about to speak; but he had already called out the order to drive on, and the carriage rolled away while he stood on the corner. The snow was over, and a tingling wind had sprung up, that lashed his face as he stood gazing. Suddenly he felt something stiff and cold on his lashes, and perceived that he had been crying, and that the wind had frozen his tears.